Chapter 3: Lawyers, Guns and Money
Jollie Lemon is an old-time fence. He’s been around for years and years, running an honest pawn shop up front of his place while in back he sells and trades in goods not so honest. I did some work with him from time to time back before my government-funded vacation, so I had no qualms dealing with him again.
Before we get to his place, however, Tony gets me squared away in a little room little more than a flophouse owned by the Carcinnis on the east end. It isn’t much, just a futon on the floor with a couch and a TV so ancient it weighed a hundred pounds and had a black and white screen. Still, it’s a place to sleep and to hang between jobs.
Stowing my one suitcase and snagging a key from the landlord, Tony then drives us to Jollie’s shop. We find the old guy working his front desk, a handful of customers roaming about looking at Jollie’s wares, mostly video games and electronic equipment, but a few pieces of jewelery and even a few legal guns.
“Holy shit,” Jollie says with a grin as Tony and me saunter through the front door. “If it ain’t Jackie Cruise. Boy, I heard they locked you up and threw away the key.”
I can’t help but smile myself. Jollie and I don’t have a long past, but we always got along real well, and he’s done business with enough other people I know. “Old man,” I say, walking forward to shake his hand, “they had to let me out. Told me they needed to make room for your ugly puss.”
There’s some general laughter all around, Tony getting in on the funny action for a few minutes, but then Jollie calls over one of his workers to take the front desk before pulling us with him through a hanging curtain into the back room of his shop.
That back room is a small legend in some circles, and deservedly so. There’s wall to wall shelves holding everything from table saws to raw diamonds in a safe to sawed-off shotguns. I couldn’t name all the stuff lining those walls. All of it’s illegal. Some of it’s hot, some of it’s merely under the radar. But all of it would land Jollie in hot water if he ever got caught. Fortunately for Jollie, he’s got a lot of people looking out for him, including more than a few cops on one payroll or other. One big thing Jollie has going for him is that he’s like Switzerland, a neutral party. Everybody comes to him for business, so nobody puts the screws on him. And everybody is willing to shed a little green from time to time to keep the cops from looking too close at Jollie’s store.
The old man comes to a stop in the middle of his small warehouse and turns around. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen today?”
“I hear you need a job done,” Tony says, his eyes snaking towards my own. I nod along with him.
“Yeah, that I do,” Jollie says.
“What? You need us to pick up something for you?” Tony asks.
Jollie waves off the question. “Nothing like that. I got plenty of stock for the moment. But I got this customer, he’s a lawyer. He’s behind on his latest payment. Way behind.”
“Lawyers make good money,” Tony says. “He should be able to pay.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Jollie says. “Bum comes in here and wants a top-of-the-line stereo system, but he don’t want to pay big bucks for it. I get him one. It’s a little warm, I got to admit, but not too hot. It won’t be missed, in other words. But this bum, he says he can’t pay full up front, so I figure him being an upstanding officer of the court or something, he’s a good bet. I let him open a line of credit. Now he’s missed a payment, by weeks.”
I tch, tch and shake my head. “That’s not like you Jollie, giving out credit to an unknown and all.”
He shrugs. “What can I say, times is tough for everybody. Or maybe I’m just getting soft in my old age.”
“So, what you want us to do?” Tony asks. “Break the guy’s legs or something? Retrieve your property?”
Jollie waves us off again. “No, no. Nothing so drastic. At least not yet. It’s his first missed payment, so I’ll go easy on him.” He reaches in a shirt pocket and pulls out a little card like a business card, hands it to Tony. “That’s his address. Just head over there and bust out a few windows, show him who he’s dealing with.”
Tony glances at the card, then hands it off to me. I recognize the address. Over in a nice part of the city. Not my usual turf, but I know the lay of the land. I’ve broken in my share of places over there.
“Here.” Jollie reaches over to a shelf and picks up a claw hammer, hands it to me. “Take this. Put a little fear of God into the guy. But don’t hurt him. Not yet, anyway.”
I smile as I take the hammer. It’s been a while. This could be fun.
Because Tony’s sports car is too well known among the thug crowd, we decide to take one of the old box vans Jollie keeps around back of his place. Cruising across town takes some time with the traffic and the lights, giving me and Tony a chance to catch up some. I’d been so busy since landing out of the joint, we hadn’t really had a chance to talk. I find out not much has changed with the old crowd, some guys moved up in the Family, some guys went missing, a few are locked away. It’s interesting to find out about a few new characters on the scene, but there aren’t really any major surprises.
At one point, I bring up being shot at on the streets. “I’d like to know who the hell took those shots at me.”
Tony only nods as he drives. “You and me both, partner, but the truth is, we’ll probably never know. Probably just some low-level stooge Sardona keeps around for the light work.”
“Like us?” I ask.
He grins. “Yeah, kind of like us.”
After an hour, we finally cross over a bridge into a nicer part of the city, and soon we’re cruising along suburbs with green front yards, dogs yipping on the porch, soccer moms jogging up and down the streets.
“Don’t worry,” Tony says while patting the dashboard. “In this heap, we look just like any other utility worker or delivery guy.”
But I’m not worried. I’ve done this sort of thing plenty of times before.
Soon enough we spot the address ahead, a red German sedan parked in the driveway in front of an open two-door garage.
“That’s the place,” I say, pointing.
Tony steers over and parks a couple of houses down. “Let’s do this quick.”
We’re out and jogging toward the house, not quite running because that might bring us too much attention. In jeans and T-shirts, we blend in well enough, not looking like the thugs we are.
In front of the house, we shift, me heading for the German car, Tony heading toward that open garage. I just make it to the car when the front door opens. Out steps a heavyset guy in a nice side, his comb-over haircut looking a little out of style for his young but flabby face. The guy doesn’t look happy.
“Who the hell are you?” he yells at me and Tony.
Tony only grins, then jogs on into the garage.
“Jollie Lemon sends his regards!” I shout out, then I swing the hammer down hard, busting out the driver’s tail light of the guy’s car.
He screams like a little girl. “My baby! What the hell you doing?”
I swing again, this time shattering the driver’s door window.
“Agh!” The guy keeps screaming like somebody just cut out his appendix. He nearly stumbles off his front porch, rushing toward me, but then I raise the hammer once more and he comes to a halt a dozen or so yards away.
“Please, whatever, don’t hit my baby again, okay?” He’s pleading with me, begging.
“Hey lawyer boy!” Tony shouts out.
Me and the attorney, we both look into the garage. Tony is standing there with a rusty old wood-chopping axe. Then Tony comes charging out, the axe raised above his head.
I swear to God, that attorney’s face turns as white as a dead fish’s belly. He raises his arms as if they would do any good against an axe chopping for his head.
But Tony isn’t going for the lawyer. No, sir. He brings the head of the axe down hard in the center of the car’s hood, making a sound like a giant ca
n opener crunching open a sheet of iron, along with adding a nice new dent.
The attorney screams again, then turns and runs toward his house. Actually, it’s more like a fast waddle than a run, but the idea is similar.
Tony grins at me and I bring my hammer down hard, knocking off the driver’s side mirror.
“Think that’s enough?” Tony asks.
I hear shouting and crying from inside.
“I think he gets the point,” I say.
Then we both run away, hop in the old van, and drive back across the river to our home turf. We laugh all the way. It’s almost just like the old days.
Good times.
But somebody out there took some shots at me, and I don’t like that. Somebody’s got it coming to them. Nobody tries to brush off Jackie Cruise and gets by with it.